Moonstruck

by Aleksandr Voinov

After a couple of rings, a sleepy voice mumbled, “’Ello?”

  “Dwayne, it’s Anthony.” He did his best to sound extra cheery, knowing Dwayne was never awake at this hour. Hey, if you have to deal with an asshole, might as well fuck with him a bit. “Finally had a chance to return your calls.”

  “Oh. Uh.” Something hissed on the other end, like he was rubbing a hand over his unshaven jaw right near the phone. “What time ...”

  “It’s a little after nine. Is this a good time?”

  He smirked as Dwayne grumbled on the other end. The producer had long ago learned if he got Anthony on the line and let him go, it would be days before he got him again, so as always, he sucked it up.

  “Yeah, yeah. Now’s good. What’s up?”

  “Just returning your call. I’ve been hard at work, so I’m a little absentminded.” Dwayne was one of the main sources of the rumor that Anthony was “difficult to work with” and “hostile.” That reputation had been carefully cultivated so not every two-bit Hollywood type thought he could walk all over Anthony.

  “Uh. Just checking in on you. How’s the next book coming?”

  “Doing fine. I’m meeting Leanne tomorrow to discuss the future of the series.” Terms like “future of the series” were ominous and vague enough to speed Dwayne on toward an early retirement. Five more books or so, and he’d have aged Dwayne twenty years. Not that anybody would fuck the slimy bastard even at his current age, so no big loss there.

  “You know I have a whole team of screenwriters waiting for that first draft you promised.”

  Knowing Dwayne, he’d probably kidnapped the weaker members of the Writers Guild and kept them prisoner in a place that made Guantanamo Bay look like a Cuba Hilton. “I know. They’re going to love it. It’s a great arc. The fans will go crazy.”

  “So when will you deliver?”

  “I’ll talk to Leanne about that. There’s some things we need to consider in terms of timing, and we’ll also have to look into how we might broaden the scope a bit to appeal more to the markets outside the US.” Considering that was where half the revenue was, Dwayne was probably stroking a hard-on now. Gross.

  “Sounds great, Anthony. Just a small detail: when do we get the book?”

  “You’ll be the first to know after Leanne. You know I say nothing without my agent, right?”

  Considering Dwayne and Leanne were like a static-laden cat and a bathtub full of acid, that was always fun to watch.

  “Just ...” Dwayne was clearly reaching the end of his three-inch rope. “It’s just some people have started to think you have writer’s block or something. Like that J.K. Rowland woman. You can’t do that to us after everything we’ve been doing for you. We need a confirmed direction for the next book before we get the solid green light for the next couple of seasons.”

  “Why? From the look of the scripts, the current seven books will hold you until at least season six. Maybe season eight, depending on how much they utilize some of the subplots coming up.”

  “Yeah, well, the people who write the checks want to know this thing’s going to hold out for several more seasons, so ...”

  Anthony rolled his eyes. “Too bad for them. Honestly, I think the fans will cope as long as I release the books. I’ve met this very nice cover designer anyway, and she says doing e-books really isn’t that difficult. Old dog, new tricks, that kind of thing.”

  “Huh? Are you blocked or not?”

  “That’s a very personal question you might want to ask my proctologist. No, doing well. Very regular, you know.”

  Dwayne made a sound like that cat who’d just slipped into the bathtub. “That’s not ... Jesus.”

  “You asked.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “And it’s the only answer you’re going to get.” Anthony gritted his teeth. “Look, the situation is under control, and Leanne will be in touch with you once things are finalized.”

  Dwayne gave a snide laugh. “Things aren’t finalized until they get to me.”

  Keep telling yourself that.

  “Leanne or I will call you after our meeting. It’s—” Why do I smell smoke? Oh shit! He snatched the pan of ruined eggs off the burner and fanned at the smoke. “Listen, I have to run, but one of us will call you tomorrow night or Sunday.”

  Dwayne sighed, his exasperation grating at Anthony. “I’ll call you this evening for an update.”

  Give my regards to my voice mailbox.

  Anthony would’ve argued—because hell, why not?—but he had a kitchen full of smoke to take care of, so he just muttered, “Yeah, yeah, sounds great.”

  Once the slimy bastard had let him go, he put the phone on the counter and turned on the fan above the stove. So much for that attempt at breakfast. One of these days, he would learn not to make frustrating phone calls while he was trying to cook. He was lucky he didn’t burn the house down just nuking a Hot Pocket, never mind—

  “Do I smell smoke?”

  He turned around as Samir came down the stairs in jeans and a Walking Dead T-shirt, black hair wet and more or less arranged. “Oh, uh. Well, I was making breakfast, but ...”

  Samir laughed. “Way to go, Martha Stewart.”

  “I never claimed to be a good cook. How does breakfast out sound?”

  “You ...” Samir stiffened. “You don’t mind someone seeing us out together?”

  “Nah. It isn’t like we’ll be making out in the streets, so I doubt anyone will have a clue about what goes on when we’re alone. And besides, I know a few places that are fairly discreet. Besides, that was the last of the eggs. I’ll just have Chas pick up some more and—”

  “Chas?”

  “Chastity. My bodyguard.” He gestured at the guesthouse on the other side of the property. “Well, my bodyguard for cons and places where the crazies congregate. The rest of the time, she just keeps me from starving to death or getting too enthusiastic about this reclusive lifestyle.”

  “Doesn’t want anyone to think you were raised by wolves?”

  Anthony rolled his eyes. “You are way too quick for someone who hasn’t had caffeine yet.”

  “Give me some coffee and then see what happens.” Samir winked, and Anthony shivered.

  He cleared his throat. “Anyway. Let me go get my wallet, and we can go into town.”

  Samir shrugged. “Works for me.”

  “You just go with the flow, don’t you?”

  “Most of the time.” The kid chuckled. “Don’t have much choice when you work for corporate America.”

  “Hmm, point taken. Military’s the same way. Anyway, wallet. Be right back.”

  Anthony went upstairs, and of course made it halfway to the bedroom before he remembered his wallet was sitting on the kitchen island. Right where he’d left it. Right next to his phone. Just to be on the safe side, he made sure his keys weren’t up there, and then went back down. Naturally, his wallet, phone, and keys were sitting together on the counter.

  Samir smirked and started to speak, but Anthony wagged a finger at him. “Say the word ‘senile,’ and I swear to God, I will drop you off in the woods somewhere.”

  “I have GPS.”

  “Touché. All right, let’s roll.”

  When Anthony had gone to see Samir the first time, he’d driven his “urban camouflage” car—a basic, nondescript sedan that blended in wherever it went.

  Today, well, if Samir was really on the verge of a huge book deal—and Anthony was almost certain he was—then the kid deserved a taste of the life that deal was going to open up for him.

  “What do you think?” He flicked on the garage light. “Top up or down?”

  Samir’s jaw dropped as he stared at the gleaming black sports car. “Wow. Is that ... that’s a Ferrari, isn’t it?”

  Anthony grinned. He couldn’t help it—he fucking loved this thing. “It is. Just bought her last summer.”

  “I’m surprised it isn’t red.” Samir smirked. “Seems more like a midlife crisis—”
/>
  “Hush, you. Or we’re taking the sedan.”

  “Okay, okay.” Samir put up his hands. “You win.”

  “Thought so.” Anthony unlocked the doors, and they both climbed in, the soft leather interior squeaking softly.

  “Still has that new-car smell and everything.”

  “Damn right.” Anthony started the engine, shivering as he always did when that V-8 roared to life. “You’ll never find my gym bag or a pizza in this baby.”

  “Don’t blame you at all.” Samir ran his fingers along the edge of the black console, as if he had to admire the feel as well as the sight and smell. “I’m kind of surprised you don’t have a Humvee or something.”

  Anthony wrinkled his nose. “I drove Humvees in the Army. Highly overrated.” He backed out of the garage and headed down the driveway. “Besides, I like this thing.”

  “Yeah, I would too. Why would you ever drive the other one?”

  “To blend in.” Anthony stopped at the end of the driveway, checked for traffic, and pulled out onto the main road, the engine rumbling beautifully as he accelerated. “Flashy cars stand out too much in this town. You should see the piece of shit Chip Schwartz drives most of the time.”

  Samir glanced at him. “Really? I figured he’d be taking a limo everywhere.”

  “Nope. He does have a wicked cool Porsche, but when he wants to lay low, he’s got an older car that has seen much, much better days. Lyle Phelan does the same thing. And shit, Frankie? One of the directors-slash-producers? Woman’s got a Ferrari in her garage just like I do, but she almost never takes it out because it attracts too much attention.”

  “Probably from the local law enforcement.”

  “Yeah. She claims it’s the red paint that does it. I’m inclined to believe it’s her lead foot.”

  Samir laughed. “Probably a little of both.”

  “Probably.”

  Anthony drove them out of Viking Bay and onto Highway 101, which ran down the coast all the way into California. Obviously they didn’t need to go that far, though. Instead, he followed it to one of the dinky little towns between Port Angeles and the long, mostly empty stretch to Forks.

  As he drove, he asked, “How are you feeling about meeting with Leanne?”

  “I’m still worried she’s going to tell me I have a bit of talent but the market’s rough and I’m not really competitive.”

  “The market is rough, but people are buying more books than ever. And besides.” Anthony glanced at Samir, who had the bright-eyed, slightly shaky, hopeful expression of every debut writer in the history of the world. “You are insanely talented. Where did you learn to write like that?”

  “I have a wall of how-to books and did some creative writing in college. At first so I could write my own damn technical manuals in a way that made sense. At least that’s what I told my parents. I always loved books. Geeky kid at school, couldn’t throw a baseball, that kind of thing.”

  “Hey, it’s the 2010s. Geeks are hot.”

  Samir gave him a sideways glare that was more playful than angry. “Anyway, I was going through five or six secondhand fantasy and sci-fi books a week, and one day I was reading this alternative history novel and it sucked. I mean, the writing was awful. And it was published by a big publisher. There were a million things wrong with it, and I thought, damn, I could do better than that.”

  “That’s how James Fenimoore Cooper got started. He was reading romance novels to his wife in bed and eventually he realized they’re pretty awful. That’s the birth of the American popular novel.”

  “Wow. Also, wow, romantic.”

  Anthony grinned. “We could do that. I could read to you in bed.”

  “If you don’t fall asleep, that is.”

  “If I fall asleep, it’ll be because you wore me out.” Goose bumps prickled the back of Anthony’s neck at the memory of that languid fuck before they’d finally dragged themselves downstairs. “Not that I’m complaining.”

  “Neither am I.”

  They exchanged glances, and both smiled. Anthony squeezed Samir’s hand and focused on the road again.

  He wasn’t used to blurring the lines between friends and lovers, especially when there was the very real possibility of getting involved professionally too, but so far? Things were looking pretty good.

  He definitely wasn’t complaining.

  ***

  A half an hour or so down the road, Anthony gently withdrew his hand so he could steer, and turned the car into the gravel parking lot behind Viking Bay & Breakfast. It was a rundown little place, probably held up by birds’ nests as much as anything, but it was one of Anthony’s frequent haunts when he drove down the coast.

  Inside, the dining area was almost deserted, with only one of the dozen tables occupied by a retired couple reading newspapers.

  Don, the thirty-something son of the owner, stepped out of the back. When he saw Anthony, he beamed. “Oh, hey! Haven’t seen you in a while.”

  Anthony shrugged. “You know how it is. So busy I forget to eat breakfast.” He turned around and gently nudged Samir forward. “This is my friend Samir. I’m showing him around the peninsula. Thought I’d start by feeding him.”

  Don extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, even if you bring this kind of riffraff around.”

  “To be fair,” Samir said as they shook hands, “he brought me around.”

  “All right.” Don gestured at a table by the window. “Have a seat, and I’ll grab some menus.”

  They took their seats, and Samir looked out at the Pacific, which was just visible beyond the thick wall of trees. “Nice place. Well, nice view, anyway.”

  “Yeah, it is. And they’ve actually fixed it up quite a bit, believe it or not.”

  “Work in progress?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Anthony flipped through the menu, even though he had it memorized. “The cast and crew come here a lot, especially if they’ve been shooting all night.”

  “You’d think it would be crawling with fans.”

  “Why do you think I parked in back?” Anthony winked. “What fans don’t know, won’t hurt us.”

  “Good point.”

  “So what do you want to see today?”

  Samir shrugged. “Hadn’t really gotten that far yet.”

  “We could just drive down 101.” Anthony closed his menu and laid it flat. “See where the highway takes us.”

  “Sounds like fun. I’ve never been down the coast before.”

  “It’s settled, then, because you have got to see it.”

  Samir smiled. “Let’s do it. After we eat, of course.”

  “Of course.” Anthony’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket, and there was a text from Leanne.

  Flight rescheduled - be in VB around 10 tomorrow.

  “Looks like Leanne will be in town tomorrow morning instead of late tonight.” He texted back okay, and as he slid the phone into his pocket, added, “Not like we were going to see her until then.”

  “Tomorrow morning? On a cross-country flight?” Samir grimaced. “She’s going to be wiped out.”

  “If she is, you won’t know it. I’m fairly certain the woman’s entire cardiovascular system pumps a mix of Red Bull and coffee.”

  “A bit high-strung?”

  “Just a bit. We’ll still have the evening to ourselves if you want to do something, though.”

  Anthony knew damn well he was already blushing before that filthy smirk crossed Samir’s face.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “What if it’s what I want to do?”

  Holy fuck. “Uh.”

  Samir winked and went back to perusing the menu.

  Don appeared with two mugs and a pot of coffee. “I’ll just leave this here so I don’t have to come back every twelve seconds to refill yours.” He set the pot in the middle of the table. “What about breakfast?”

  “Samir?”

  “Um.” Samir scanned the menu again. “I’m assuming he doesn’t burn
eggs like you do?”

  “What?” Don scoffed and glared at Anthony. “You who gives me hell if something isn’t absolutely perfect?”

  “Being half-raw is a little more of a problem than ‘not absolutely perfect,’ don’t you think?”

  Don waved a hand. “It was one time, and it was like five hundred years ago.”

  Samir’s eyes widened. “Uh, you’re not going to poison me, are you?”

  “Not if you keep him in line, no.”

  “Hmm, maybe cold cereal is my best bet.”

  Anthony waved a hand. “Everything here is good. Don’t worry.”

  “Says the man who made four-alarm fried eggs this morning.”

  “Not my fault.” He glanced at Don. “I was on the phone with Dwayne.”

  Don grimaced. “Oh hell, I’d set myself on fire if I had to talk to that bastard.”

  Samir eyed Anthony, then handed his menu back to Don. “I’ll take the fried eggs and bacon. Over medium, hold the smoke.”

  Anthony rolled his eyes. Don just laughed. To Anthony, he said, “Your usual?”

  “Please.”

  As he wrote it down, Don muttered, “One tub of mop water, coming up ...”

  Anthony rubbed his eye with his middle finger. Don chuckled, then disappeared into the kitchen.

  As Anthony poured them each a cup of coffee, Samir arched his eyebrow. “I take it you two know each other?”

  “Not like that, but yes, we do know each other. Like I said, the cast and crew come in here a lot, so pretty much anyone involved with Triple Moon is on a first-name basis with the staff.”

  Samir picked up his coffee, but must’ve decided it was too hot, since he gingerly set it back down. “How involved are you? With the TV show, I mean?”

  “My contract stipulates I have to approve significant deviations from the story. Other than that, I’ve gotten to be good friends with Frankie, one of the producers. Through her, I ended up being friends with Chip, and through him, Lyle.”

  Samir’s eyes widened. “You’re ... friends. With Lyle Phelan and Chip Schwartz.”

  “Yeah.” Anthony chuckled. “They’re people, Samir. Just like you and me.”

  Samir’s eyebrow jumped, lifting just above the top of his glasses. “I’m still not entirely convinced you’re ‘just people,’ so ...” He poured a little bit of cream into his coffee. Evidently satisfied it was cooler now, he took a careful sip. “It must be amazing, having your books turned into a TV series, and getting to meet the big-name actors who play your characters.”